


The Earth was made for lovers

by playwrightfate



Series: Nothing Stands Against the Night: Fenris & Athena Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blue Hawke (Dragon Age), Character Study, F/M, a little bit of it, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwrightfate/pseuds/playwrightfate
Summary: Fenris is hoping for a quiet night out but as he steps in the Hanged Man, his eyes fall on Hawke, sitting alone at the back of the tavern. And the vision is enough to stop him in his tracks.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Series: Nothing Stands Against the Night: Fenris & Athena Hawke [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921090
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	The Earth was made for lovers

Fenris hurries through the streets of Kirkwall. Heading straight for Lowtown and the Hanged Man, he hopes he might find Varric and Isabela and perhaps even Donnic or Sebastian for one or two glasses of wine, games of Wicked Grace, light conversation with people he might have grown tempted to call friends… He had just spent the last two days sulking–as Isabela would say–in his mansion or, as he would rather describe it, spending some much needed time on his own, _in peace_. A necessity for his sanity as the rest of his time was spent working as a mercenary, usually with a certain band of misfits constantly looking for trouble and being, as Fenris had noticed through the years, quite gifted at finding it. He shakes his head at the thought as he takes a turn into a street still bustling with the business of the day, night having not quite fallen on Kirkwall yet. After two days inside not seeing anyone, he had strangely come to feel the need for fresh air and even company; if the latter was still quite a rare inclination, it had become more and more frequent in the past years. Ever since he had met Hawke in fact… No, he isnt’t going to think about her now. He pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders. No, tonight, he hopes for simple distractions; for a diversion. But try as he might, worry still nags him a little as he considers the possibility of _her_ presence, which, in truth, he fears as much as he wishes, but which would definitely prevent him from loosening up tonight. He pauses as a group of Chantry sisters pass in front of him, one of them eyeing him with inquisitive eyes before quickly turning away as his absentminded gaze, too used to these kinds of unwanted attentions, follows her down the street. Of late, he thinks as he goes back on his way, the sight of Hawke at the tavern or any social gathering had become a rarity anyway. She’d been going back home after almost each of their missions, mumbling something about headaches or other urgent tasks or, as time passed, nothing in particular as she simply went up to Hightown with a smile and a wave, leaving them behind and silently wondering what could be done to break into the defences she had slowly but surely started to erect around herself lately. Fenris knew he certainly wasn’t the designated person to do so after what had happened between them, but that only made him feel more worried, guilty and hopeless. In the last months, she had grown thinner, paler, her smiles and interventions in their discussions sporadic and usually lacking of their past radiance and warmth… He only realises he arrived at his destination as his nose almost bumps against the door of the tavern. He sighs. Thinking of her was exactly the kind of distraction he did not wish for tonight. Or he would risk far more than accidentally bumping into doors. Taking a long breath, hoping it might help him clear his mind of its last thoughts, he swiftly pushes the heavy door open and takes a single step into the tavern, ready to find one or more of his comrades already sitting at one of their usual tables, probably being impossibly loud and animated. But he does not go far before his feet stop on their own as his eyes, like magnets, fall on a figure sitting alone at the back of the tavern.

 _She_ ’s sitting alone. It’s a strange enough vision–enough to stop him in his tracks, Fenris thinks, to have Hawke, who is always surrounded by people, whether by associates, contractors, friends or enemies, or at least by her loyal mabari who usually trails besides her like a shadow, to be sitting alone, here in the crowded tavern, absentmindedly gripping a mug of beer she does not even seem to have touched yet. She offers a disturbing contrast with the rest of the place; surreal, impossibly quiet among its suffocating noise and buzzing agitation. She appears small, her frame almost huddled in the corner of one of the booth of the Hanged Man, her soft grey eyes riveted on the table, probably indifferent, he surprises himself thinking with a fond smile, to the myriads of meaningless inscriptions and lewd drawings he knows are carved into the wood, several by no other than Isabela. Isabela–ever the questionable artist!–whose satisfaction only heightens if poor Sebastian is there to witness her masterpieces, outraged as he tries, rather unsuccessfully, to prevent her from adding any more aggravating details, or Anders smiling at her albeit with more and more distant approbation while Varric encourages her loudly and Merrill tries to decipher and understand something in the commotion. But the vision blurs and his mind is quickly dragged back to Hawke. Ever since he met her, all those years ago, it seems to have become one of its main features. To go to her. She is always somewhere on his mind, haunting his dreams, lingering where he often expects her the least as he is unable, despite all his efforts, to cast her away. Unwilling also, which he dislikes admitting. He does not even notice that he’s staring at her more and more intensely. The two of them suddenly lonely figures removed from the lively, if somewhat rowdy atmosphere of the tavern. For Fenris is lulled by the waves of emotions rising from deep inside of him, creating ripples which reverberate almost painfully right down to his fingertips. Those waves which collect, overbalance and crash over him before retracting to collect, ascend and build up again. Building up as he looks at her, building up with each of the shallow breaths she takes, barely distinguishable from where he stands, but that he feels in each fibre of his body. He had now entered her orbit, sucked in by the power of her being. 

But it feels like trespassing. Surely, losing his way, he has stumbled on some forbidden vision not made for his eyes–or anybody else’s–to see. Even when she is here, standing in plain sight, he cannot shake the idea that he’s intruding. Dispossessed of the usual distractions that surround her, Hawke suddenly appears to him in all her immensity and smallness. _He sees the stars about her head, about her feet the sea_. He slowly gazes upon her face reconstituted at this distance by a mix of observation and memories which know by heart the curve of a nose, the width of cheekbones, the texture of skin. He almost looks away as the delicate features of her face seem, tonight, to bear a sadness older than the world itself. Her absent stare shines with a heavy emptiness and something else, something which, at times, seems to set her away from the rest of them. Unreachable and hypnotic. She is of a beauty that does not wholly pertain to this world; she lies somewhere _beyond_ , unaffected despite the soft smiles painted on her lips while she–almost–always finds the right words to ease even the tensest of people and situations, while she listens with respect and intelligence to anybody who wishes to speak to her, while she understands what others want to say perhaps even better than they do so themselves, and offers advice which always makes one think and wonder. There is a great power in her compassion, a power that scares him sometimes. A power in her stillness. Peaceful and unwavering, she seems to know about _the ways of the world_ in a more intimate way than most. In what abyss she has stared he can only guess… he knows quite a lot of them himself. And if one looks attentively, it is plain to see that the shadows of what she’s seen are still veiling her eyes. Maybe permanently. He is reminded in this moment that despite all the time spent together, the fleeting, strained but still living and breathing intimacy, the tacit understanding he often feels in her presence, there is an untraveled distance which will perhaps be impossible ever to cover. She remains a mystery. 

Time slows down until it comes to a stop, as he looks at her, still hesitating on the threshold of the tavern. 

But he’s lying to himself. In truth, he knows better. He knows her better. He knows she cares so deeply her feelings might swallow her whole one day. Once more, the wave descends and crashes over him. He wants to say, to scream something that would shake her from her reverie. But even in his mind, the words die down, get stuck in his throat. The air sucked out of him as she suddenly looks up at him and their eyes finally meet. The veil is torn down; the distance evaporated in an instant. He feels a sharp, tugging pain in his hands, a sudden longing for her which consumes him all. She is everywhere. _Her heart has been fragmented times and times again by grief, heartbreak and the state of things, by those relentless ways of the world which crush so many under their wheels and which, too often, left her alive but washed up on the shore, battered, and alone and feeling so very, very, tired tonight. She would like to feel anchored to the world again, but the pain and losses pile up and obscure her. She has been uprooted and she wonders if she isn’t beyond retrieving…_ He exhales sharply and takes a tearing step forward. Behind him the door of the tavern opens with a bang, smacking the wall as Isabela, Varric and Merrill stride in, apparently deep in a conversation about the morality of some Wicked Grace tactic. Fenris doesn't look back at them but feels a relief tinged with annoyance. His eyes are still locked with Hawke’s. As Isabela claps him on the back and leaves her hand there, bringing him forward with them, already trying to draw him in the conversation, he feels the veil being lifted up again but he refuses to avert his gaze. Now that he knows–what exactly he would never be able to say–but now that Fenris knows, that he has seen, that he has heard… He can never forget. With them, Fenris comes and sits at her table where Hawke greets them with a smile and a quick sign to Norah to order more wine and beer, already listening attentively to Varric’s advocacy in the Wicked Grace’s heated debate as if nothing had happened. And for a time, the shadows have passed. But Fenris won’t forget.


End file.
